


On Dreamer's Wings

by Malkuthe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Betrayal, Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Dreams vs. Reality, Gay, M/M, Requited Love, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malkuthe/pseuds/Malkuthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The only beginnings exist in dreams… For my people… We have always been.</i>
</p>
<p>This is a story of a tragedy unlike most others. This is the tale of a young, crippled man, who falls in love with an 'angel.' This magnificent creature that could not help but fall in love with him as well. Yet, as with all tragedies, there is one fatal problem: this 'angel' sincerely believes that the young man is nothing but a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am the Watcher

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I understand that most of you know me for my fanworks, but fanfiction is only a small part of what I do as a writer, and I think that I am ready to show you the story of one of my most tragic characters, now called Therus, God of Abandoned Dreams, who was once a crippled boy known by the name Atreus.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this preface and the first chapter that follows after it. After that, I hope you join me on this telling of a tragic tale.

_The only beginnings exist in dreams. For my people… We have always been._

Before we embark on this magnificent, yet heartrendingly tragic tale, I suppose I must first introduce myself. I was once called Malkuthe Highwind, in an age long gone, in a world long since moved on from my time. My own story is tragic, but it is not the tale we shall speak of. I am, for all intents and purposes of this preface, what amounts to a god. I was once mortal, like most creatures in the myriad realms, but I long ago sacrificed my mortality to be able to help my then-power-hungry beloved.

I am a god, but I became one of my own volition, and of my own devices. I have taken the mantle of Storyteller, a title I hold in a number of worlds. I watch the curling streams of time and possibility and from them I watch the stories of the inhabitants of countless realms unfold. Of those stories, I take the most tragic, the most exemplary, and I write of them. This tale of a boy, by the name of Atreus, who fell in love with an angel that thought he was merely a dream, is perhaps the most tragic I have witnessed in millennia.

The Llyltari are a people much like mortal men. They are capable, perhaps, in dim light or proper camouflage, of passing as just another individual of the race known by many as man. However, the Llyltari are different in one particular, blindingly obvious way: they are winged.

From the backs of the Llyltari sprout majestic feathered wings, capable of rivaling the glory of angels’. Whether, in the world they inhabit, they are _like_ angels, or whether they were the basis for the myths about those heavenly creatures, is unclear.

In truth, the Llyltari seem more like the result of an unholy union between a poor man and an even more unfortunate bird. Feathers sprout from their scalps, interrupting their otherwise flowing locks of silken hair. These same feathers also covered their elbows, and their ankles, but apart from these things, they were very much like men in most everything else.

Most, that is, save their culture. For the many different peoples of mortal men, the world was created by one god, or many. Yet, for the Llyltari, this was a baffling concept. Theirs is a way of life curious for the anthropologists of the modern day.

Why? The Llytari have no myth of creation. They worship a divine being, yes, a supreme spirit that permeates and is as eternal as the world they believe they live in. For the Llyltari, the world has always been, and always shall be.

Few people have ever had the fortune to speak with one of these lofty beings, for they have many laws that forbid such things save in the most grave of circumstances. Any question posed about where they came from, or what they believed in was merely met with the same, almost-bored answer: _“we have always been.”_

Any further query about the origin of their way of life, of the way they do certain things, their language, or even how they learned to create fire, among others, was met with a similarly apathetic answer: _“we dreamt it.”_

For the Llyltari, their mountain homeland _is_ the world. The _only_ true reality. Everything outside is but a dream, the result of a power they claim is imparted on them by the Supreme Spirit. When the Llyltari leave their homeland, they believe that they dream the rest of the world into creation.

Any place outside of The Mountain unexplored by the Llyltari is, as far as they are concerned, dark, swirling void. They explain the fact that the world around them is as unchanging and immutable as The Mountain by saying that the World Dream is a collective dream of their people. Each time a Llyltari dreams a new part of the world, hitherto unknown, that place becomes a part of the World Dream.

It is in this belief, ingrained so deeply in the hearts and minds of the Llyltari, that we find our tragedy. It was one of these majestic creatures whose blind belief in the teachings of his people, and his disregard for the laws that they set forth, that changed the course of one young man’s life forever.

Perhaps it was the tragedy of their story, or the fact that on his deathbed, this Llyltari, by the name of Icarus, called out across the worlds and begged that someone, anyone, do good by the name of the boy called Atreus, that called me to this particular stream of possibility.

Needless to say, it was their tragedy that enticed me to stay.

I am the Watcher. I am the Storyteller. And in this tome, I will tell to you, the tragic story of Atreus and his angel Icarus.


	2. A Boy Called Atreus

“Atreus! Where are you?” The female voice that rang up the stairs of a tiny little, almost-decrepit hovel out by the edge of town was notably irritated, and, in the mind of the young man it was calling for, rather irritating in turn. He never got a moment’s peace with his mother in the house.

“Atreus?” called the woman once more, but Atreus was far more intent on the pen in his hands, and the parchment laid out before him. It was blank. Normally it would’ve been swimming with words, blotted, and prepared for inserting into his little book by now, but his muse was annoyingly silent.

“By the gods,” growled the woman, thundering up the steps. The hovel that Atreus and his family lived in had been an abandoned house, from the days when richer men and women lived in town, and it hadn’t been such a miserable place to live. It had been derelict and run-down by the time it had passed into their possession, but Atreus’ father was resourceful, unlike his mother who did nothing but complain and yell at people, and managed to get the house into a livable state.

“I swear,” said the woman. “One of these days I will throw you out on the streets and I’ll see how long I can ignore you, you belligerent child.” This time, the voice was coming in through the doorway of Atreus’ cramped little room in a corner of the upper floor of the house.

Atreus didn’t need to crane his neck to see the disapproving face of his mother. He didn’t need to look to know that she had her hands folded underneath her ample bosom that was already beginning to sag with age. Atreus didn’t need to look behind him to see the exasperation in her eyes. The utter conviction that she was doing only what she knew what was best for him.

Atreus knew well enough that she felt that very same conviction for his father. His mother was convinced that she knew best for _everyone_ and never stopped talking about how other people could only improve their lives if they started doing the — in her view — correct things.

The young man didn’t know why this was the case with his mother. He did not know where the mentality came from, but all the same, he knew without a doubt that he was quite happy with his life as it was.

Atreus ran his fingers through his long white hair, reclining his head to the side to allow the myriad locks to fall in waves across his shoulder. He needed to get rid of most of it. His mother would never let him hear the end of it about desecrating his body, as she was convinced that the fact that his hair was white was a sign that the gods had chosen him for great things. Yet Atreus knew that she was just being paranoid. Him? Being worthy of great things? Unlikely.

“Mother,” said young Atreus, swiveling around on the small rough-hewn stool that his father had fashioned for him so that he could have something to sit upon to write on his old, but sturdy desk. “You know how I get when I’m writing,” he continued, daring to look a tad abashed at the plump matron before him.

His mother, Atreus thought, would be the death of him. The woman was away most days, teaching at one of the local schools, where years past, Atreus had quickly learned he’d never fit in with the other children. His mother had tried, time and again, to get him to return, but finally Atreus’ father had to stop her and let Atreus live without the misery of being regularly forced to try and endure school.

And so, for much of Atreus’ eighteen years of life, he’d been cooped up at home, his studies mostly abandoned save for some maths, and, on his father’s insistence, the ever-important skills of reading and writing. Atreus never complained about the latter. It was a private joy, between his father and him, whenever they had one of their lessons. His mother had long given up on trying to teach him anything.

“Oh, dear,” said his mother, the very tone of her voice scraping on Atreus’ nerves. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” she finished, sitting down on the thin and often-scratchy bed that he’d been afforded.

With the little salary that his parents had, they could not afford very much for their only son. Truthfully, Atreus was rather surprised and thankful, at least to his father, that he even _had_ a bed. His parents gave him what they could, but in truth, Atreus was never really want for anything more than what he had.

Atreus would use everything that he owned to the point of breaking. Only then, when his possession was long past the point of practical usability, did he ask for a replacement, if one was needed. Atreus looked upon his mother, and felt an upwelling of contempt in his stomach.

“Swivel on the stool, mother?” asked the young man with a bitter, mischievous smirk on his face. “I know, I know,” he said. “I might get splinters.” The woman shook her head and raised an eyebrow at Atreus. “Alright. Fine. I know, my leg might get hurt.”

The woman smiled, but again shook her head. Atreus had been born with a crippled leg. The reason for it was beyond the couple, but it only served to further convince Atreus’ mother that the boy was meant for greatness, his crippled leg the price for formidable powers that would manifest eventually in his life.

The couple had long tried to have a child, and when they did, he’d been a crippled mess from birth. Atreus’ father thought that the gods had a rather awful sense of humour, but was thankful for his son. His mother, on the other hand, decided to cling to irrationality.

“What, would you rather I not turn to face you when you speak to me, mother?” asked the young man. The innocent smile on his face belied the sarcasm that was otherwise evident in his voice. His mother placed a fist on her hip and frowned at the young man, shaking her head again.

It wasn’t until his mother’s eyes darted towards the inkwell, parchment, and pen that were momentarily abandoned that Atreus sighed. “Oh,” said Atreus, disappointed that his mother would bring up the subject once again. He turned away from her and returned to attempting to write fervently.

This time the words flowed like water. Atreus supposed he had to thank his mother for getting his muse to cooperate once again, but he’d rather it had not been in such unhappy circumstances. Atreus pretended that his mother didn’t exist. That he couldn’t hear her. That she wasn’t right there in the room with him.

The woman threw up her hands in frustration and walked towards the door. Atreus was every bit as stubborn as his father, though thankfully, she did not often have to deal with them both, as her husband worked as a coachman in the mornings, and often, took on shifts in the nightwatch.

“Atreus,” she said, stopping on the threshold of Atreus’ room. “You’re wasting your life away with whatever it is you’re doing.” The sound of scrawling became noticeably louder, almost angry. The grip on the pen became rather tighter. Atreus’ knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his implement.

Had the woman been more perceptive, she would have noticed her son trembling slightly where he sat. “Sorry,” she said, in a tone that sounded, to Atreus’ ears, insincere. “I know you’re writing, but goodness, what is it doing for you?”

There was a loud tear as the nib of Atreus’ pen tore right through the parchment and gouged the surface of the table. “You spend all day cooped up in this little room of yours, doing whatever it is you’re doing. The least you could do is go out there and work and help around the house.”

The only sound that followed in response was the clatter of the pen on the desk. Atreus’ trembling was no longer subtle enough to escape the eye. She threw up her hands. “Is this what you’re going to teach your children?” she demanded.

Atreus was furious beyond belief. His desk was already crisscrossed with enough gouges from his pen that it was starting to look like a cat’s scratching post. “Stay indoors. Just… _write?_ You would be so much happier if you were out there making friends and doing things that are truly productive!”

The woman shook her head and sighed before leaving Atreus to his thoughts. She believed there was simply no talking to her son, but the boy was thinking the exact same thing. There was simply no talking to his mother. She would never understand. She didn’t seem like she _wanted_ to understand.

Everything that Atreus ever did was either not good enough, or downright terrible. Everything that he ever said that went against what his mother believed in was either delusion or just plain wrong. She was never wrong. She acted like she was never wrong. As far as Atreus was concerned, that only made him angrier.

Atreus’ mother was trying to take away the one thing that kept him sane in this household that he had to share with her because of his inability to provide for himself. Her crusade against his passion was immensely infuriating for Atreus.

The young man shook his head and blinked away tears, wishing that he could somehow magically rid himself of the damnable limp that the gods had seen fit to curse him with. He fumbled with the stopper of his inkwell, unable to properly seal the damn thing on his first try because he was trembling so horribly.

Atreus gritted his teeth and wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand. He _did_ work. He _did_ make something out of his life. He _did_ have friends, just not very many, and almost none of his own age.

It wasn’t like the aspiring author spent every minute of every hour of every day cooped up in his tiny corner of his tiny room. Every Smithysday, the end of the work-week for most labourers, he would go to the little book shop in the far corner of town.

On the way there he would talk to his father. Then he would get dropped off as close as his father could possibly take him, depending on the route the man was currently taking. Most days Atreus’ father had a passenger, so he still had to walk ten or fifteen minutes to get to the bookshop.

There, Atreus passed on the knowledge that his father had imparted on him. He felt like it was the least he could do for the town that paid what little it could for his sustenance. He taught the farmers, coalminers, and outcasts of society at large that wanted to learn, how to read and write.

Afterwards, when they were done for the day, Atreus would stay around and help the owner of the book shop, old man Hermes, sort his books.

Sometimes, Atreus got paid in a few Dominion coppers. Barely enough to get him a loaf of bread to eat every day for the rest of the week. Sometimes, when old man Hermes was in a particularly good mood, Atreus would get a Dominion cryllë, a small coin with middling value between a copper and silver piece.

However, more often than not, Atreus was paid with a good book. The boy took anything he was paid with happily, but took to the books the best. Seeing Old Man Hermes, who was rather lonely in his advanced age, smile at his enthusiasm and youthful effervescence was always the highlight of Atreus’ day. Well, that, and the wonder in the eyes of the labourers that were learning to read and write for the first time.

Yet, with all that, at the end of the week, Atreus could never help but feel bad. By the end of the week Atreus had already finished reading and re-reading the books that Old Man Hermes paid him with, and he couldn’t keep them in good conscience. Those books were, after all, the old man’s livelihood. Comes Shadesday, Atreus would often hobble as fast as he could with his cane from his corner of town to old man Hermes’, leaving the books just inside one of the windows.

Atreus looked down at his hands, then down at his crippled leg. He smiled. As much as his mother thought he wasn’t, deep down, Atreus knew that he _was_ making a difference. That he _was_ doing something productive.

While his mother did not understand, and probably would never understand what he was doing, Atreus knew that what he was doing was not wrong. In truth, the young man believed that he was doing profound good. That while it only sometimes kept food on his table, or teach him skills for the trades that the town needed, Atreus was helping people. To him, that was what mattered.

Atreus grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the foot of his bed. It was a pretty thing, pretty to look at, and pretty expensive to boot. It had been a gift from his father for his anointing day, almost four years past.

The cane was made of a beautiful hardwood, fire-hardened, and, when it had been new, finished with a dark stain and clear, bright varnish. The handle, in a shape typical to most canes, was made of polished gray riverstone inlaid with some almost-midnight blue painted swirls.

The cane had been a thing of such beauty when Atreus had first received it that he’d almost cried and demanded that his father take the thing back and use the money to buy something more useful for their survival. However, Atreus had not wanted to insult his father’s generosity, nor did he want to turn down a new cane.

The young man remembered that day fondly, and one of his more vivid memories was looking at his old cane. The wretched old thing was nearly seven years old. None of its original decoration remained. It was also already far too short for him. The very next day, he’d thrown the old cane away and used the new one from then on.

Atreus pushed himself to his feet, though not without much effort, and leaned on his cane as he hobbled towards an open window nearby. From outside, summer daylight and a cool breeze wafted into his room.

Atreus looked out of his small portal into the outside world, and smiled at the golden sunlight that bathed their little provincial town. Further into the town, Atreus could see people bustling about on their daily business in the streets below.

The day was great, if not busy. If anything, it only meant that Atreus could go and find peace at _his_ spot in the woods just outside of town. The young man breathed in the warm summer air and turned back to his cramped little room.

Atreus hobbled towards his desk and picked up his pen. He made sure the thing was capped, and shoved it into a small leather satchel that already contained a few rolls of parchment. Atreus then picked up his inkwell, and made sure it was well-stoppered before pushing it into a separate compartment in his messenger bag.

The fact that the satchel rode on his side instead of on his back was a blessing. Atreus could not, for the life of him, carry a pack on his shoulders. Years of leaning down on a cane far too short for him had seen to that. Even now, he walked with a slump in his shoulders, though his cane was now a perfect length for him. Regardless, Atreus had never really needed to carry that much on his person anyway. The relatively tiny satchel he possessed was more than enough for his trips.

Without so much as saying goodbye to his mother, as he knew that she would know where he would be on such a day, Atreus hobbled down the steps. His good foot and the cane went down first before finally brought down his bad leg on the same step.

Descending the short flight of steps from the second floor landing to the first was a slow and laborious process. At the bottom of the steps, Atreus had to brace himself against a nearby wall, panting. When he’d finally caught his breath, Atreus walked to the kitchen and grabbed himself a piece of day-old bread from the pantry.

Atreus looked around for anything he might be able to take from their food stocks, but there was precious little he could. Then his eyes alit on the kitchen table. There was a basket of apples that did not look very healthy.

Nevertheless, Atreus grabbed one of the apples, shoved it in his satchel alongside the piece of bread and hobbled over to where his waterskin hung. He grabbed the skin and slung it over his shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

Atreus then walked to the front door and looked once around his home. The young man grimaced. He wanted to get out of the damn place, if not because it was too tiny to live in, but because of his his mother somehow managed to make it feel ten times smaller.

Atreus took his hat from the stand by the door and let himself out of the house. He hobbled onto the street and tipped his at at the stableboy that ran past his way. “Good morning!” called out the lad, who eyed Atreus’ limp but otherwise said nothing of it. The boy was one of the kinder children that didn’t bother Atreus too much.

Nevertheless, the thought of the other kids that weren’t so kind made Atreus walk faster. The last thing that the crippled young man wanted was to run into one of the little bastards who seemed to think that just because they were schooled and didn’t have a disability, that they were far and above superior to him. At least Atreus had some money saved from the time he spent working at the shop. He knew that those boys spent every copper piece of theirs on sweets from the town bakery.

Atreus sniffed in derision at the thought of those _children_. Then he made a beeline for the woods. At least there, deep in the thicket that everyone thought was impregnable, Atreus would find sanctuary, if only for a couple of hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, reader! I hope you enjoyed this first look at one of my original works.
> 
> I'm really excited to bring this out there for anyone willing to take a gander at it, but if it's not too much to ask, please, leave a comment with feedback. It's going to help me shape my telling of the rest of this story. <3\. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> If you have any questions, please, don't hesitate, send them to me at [Malkuthe Highwind](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> If all goes well, the next chapter should go up next Thursday.


End file.
